


Goh Veh

by startraveller776



Series: Through the Dark Mirror [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drama, F/M, Mirror Universe, Pon Farr, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22940251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: T'Pol has a problem, and somehow the infuriating Chief Engineer of the ISS Enterprise is the only one who can fix it.
Relationships: T'Pol/Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Series: Through the Dark Mirror [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648651
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	Goh Veh

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This is a repost of an old fic. I have done a little (a _lot_ ) cleaning up for smoother reading.

**GOH VEH**

**EIGHTEEN MONTHS AGO:**

Newly transferred to the _ISS Enterprise_ , Trip stepped off the shuttlepod and was greeted by the most striking creature he'd ever laid eyes on. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek to keep from whistling his avid approval of the goddess before him. It was a second before his gaze landed on the pair of pointed ears peeking up from her long, silky locks. That'd have been crying shame—if he gave a damn. He didn't.

"Too bad," he said, mouth curving into a half-smile.

The Vulcan raised an up-swept brow. "Too bad?" she asked in a husky voice—just when he thought she couldn't be any more attractive.

He leaned forward, breaching her personal space. God _damn_ , that scent was exotic. He licked his lips. "If you weren't Vulcan, I'd invite you to tour my new quarters."

"If I weren't Vulcan, you would be in sickbay right now," she replied without missing a beat.

He threw his head back and laughed. "I like you." He glanced at the scowling MACO who stood rigidly next to her, a wiry man with dark hair and a face that seemed have been hewn from stone. "Is she always this much fun?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," the MACO practically spat in a clipped British timbre. "This way, _sir_."

Trip huffed another laugh. This ship was going to be a barrel of chuckles. 

* * *

**PRESENT:**

"Well, well, well," Trip said as T'Pol stepped into Engineering, "Look what the _sehlat_ dragged in."

She met his look with challenge in her dark, glittering eyes. That expression raised the hackles of other humans aboard the ship, especially Archer and Reed who thought she was too uppity for a third-class citizen. They thought she ought know her place and act it. But where was the fun in having a docile underling? Give Trip that flint and steel in her gaze; he'd find a way to set fire to the powder keg she tried to hide beneath her Vulcan logic.

He bore his teeth in a lecherous smile as he crossed the room to meet her, the stiff scar on the right side of his face pulling taut. He _hated_ the thing, a gift from that sniveling little MACO. One of these days—

 _Later._ Trip's favorite playmate deserved his full and undivided attention.

"What could possibly be so important that you'd risk your pretty little self in this radiation?" he asked T'Pol, stepping almost toe-to-toe with her. She stood her ground, set her jaw in defiance at his attempt to intimidate her. Good girl. This was how the game worked. "You don't wanna turn out like me, do you, darlin'?"

She canted a brow. "Unless Major Reed has decided to make an unsuccessful attempt on my life," she countered with that raspy alto, "I doubt my 'pretty little self' is in any danger."

Trip shoved down the all-too familiar swell of rage at her jab, put more effort into the grin that had involuntarily dropped a tick. He'd be damned if he lost this round to her because he couldn't keep his temper in check.

"You should know," she continued, "that Vulcan physiology can withstand far more radiation than humans can endure."

He read the triumph painted in her eyes. That was rich. She thought she had him. Funny how everyone thought Vulcans were completely devoid of emotion. He knew better. He knew _her—_ every twitch in her delicate features, every shift in her gaze, even her damn rate of respiration—almost as well as he knew the warp engines. And just like them, she'd likely be the death of him one day.

Oh, but what a way to go.

He tipped forward, mouth a hairsbreadth away from her peaked ear. "If Vulcans are so superior," he murmured, "then why are _you_ the slaves?" He relished the way her breath caught, how she went utterly still like a statue.

Point one for Tucker.

But that was enough fooling around for now. He had a stack of reports to go over, components to jury-rig because heaven forbid the high and mighty Terran Empire actually provide quality equipment for their warships. "What d'ya want?" he asked, taking a half-step backward. "I'm busy."

She squared her shoulders, an slight movement that he nearly missed. "My tricorder needs recalibration—"

"And that's supposed to be _my_ problem?" He gave her a flat look. "I'm the goddamn _Chief Engineer_ , in case you've forgotten. Fix it yourself. Quit wasting my time." He spun on his heel and stalked toward his office, making it all of three steps before:

"The captain requires it."

Trip looked heavenward, ground his teeth. So _typical_. Using her favored status with Forrest to manipulate him. He turned back to her. "Does he, now?"

"Indeed," T'Pol replied with a ghost of victory in her tone. "I am, as you say, merely a _slave_." She closed the short distance between them and pressed a tricorder and PADD into his hands. "I need it for an away mission at eleven hundred hours. The required specifications are noted. You may bring it to me on the bridge when you are finished."

She didn't wait for his response, but left him glowering after her as she made her exit. He was caught between admiration for her sheer audacity and a consuming hunger for retribution.

He became aware of an unusual quiet in the engine room and found that all eyes were on him. The hell did they expect? Him to dash to his office to lick his wounds?

"Get yer asses back to work!" he growled, staring down anyone who didn't snap to it fast enough.

He was going to find a way to get her back for this—for making him lose face in front of his crew. Their game was _far_ from over.

* * *

**FOUR MONTHS AGO:**

T'Pol watched with detached interest as Commander Tucker entered the mess hall. It was his first appearance anywhere outside of Engineering since the "accident" two months ago. She'd overheard crew members gossip about him, about how he took his meals in his small office, how he rarely if ever spent any time in his quarters. Not that this information held any importance to her. He was another human, self-serving and chained to emotional whim.

The unsightly scars that covered most of the right side of his face were still pink. If she were inclined, she could almost bring herself to pity the once charismatic commander. He'd been less despicable than most of his kind and a more than competent engineer. If the whispers bore any truth, the accident which had disfigured him had not been an accident at all, but a botched attempt on his life by Major Reed. T'Pol could discern no logic behind the attack—but then, humans were hardly logical creatures.

She sipped her tea, following Commander Tucker with her gaze as he gathered his meal. No, she did not pity him, but in this moment, she felt something akin to _understanding_. But how? He was human. She was Vulcan, no matter her rank as fourth in command of the empire's most decorated warship. She would never be equal or even accepted—as meagerly as the Terrans accepted one another. Her blood would never be crimson, the tips of her ears rounded, nor her brows crescent. No matter how she wore her hair, she would always, at best, be an intelligent and useful _slave_.

The commander stood in the center of the room, searching for a place to sit. She observed the bowed heads, the hunched shoulders and furtive glances as the crewmen murmured quietly, and she came to a startling conclusion. Commander Tucker was being shunned. As a Vulcan, she was particularly attuned to the subtle nuances of body language, and these humans were practically shouting their antipathy.

Perhaps... Perhaps the disparity between her and Tucker was not as great as she had believed. Perhaps he was as isolated as she'd always been—she a slave to be ignored, he a monster to be scorned.

If so, then what benefit could she glean from this discovery?

"Is this seat taken?"

Tucker dropped his plate of food on the table as he took the chair across from her without asking further permission. Of course, he wouldn't. Humans didn't; they took what they wanted, did what they wanted, careless of the cost to others. But this was something humans never did—share a meal with any of the species that they had conquered without prejudice. She waited for Tucker to realize his error but he afforded her only a glance, a flash of a smile, before he started in on his meal. Was he unaware of the damage this act would do? Was he so thoughtless of his increasingly precarious position?

Or did he truly not care?

"So, Commander," Tucker said, breaking the silence, mouth spreading in one of those unsettling grins that humans wore when they wanted something salacious, "when are you finally gonna stop by my quarters for that official tour? It's been—what?—a year since I invited you."

"Fourteen months, two weeks, and three days," she corrected automatically.

His grin widened, tongue pressing up against his front teeth. "You've been keeping track. I think I like that."

She began to argue that she had not been longing for his company as he implied, that she had an eidetic memory, but she realized that it would be futile. She opted for a different track: "As I recall, the invitation was open only if I were not Vulcan."

He huffed a quiet, gravelly laugh. "You're not gonna let something as little as being a different species get in our way, are you?"

"It is an obstacle that I would prefer not to surmount."

"What? No scientific curiosity?" He wet his bottom lip, gaze dipping in a lazy perusal of her. "I know I'm definitely curious." He leaned forward, voice deepening as he said, "Let's, you and me, do a little experiment, Commander."

She ignored the sudden warmth skittering across her skin at the naked _want_ in his gaze. "Your theory assumes that I am interested in a sexual exploration with a human," she replied coolly, "and that I would do so with you. You are, of course, in error."

"Am I now?" He settled back in his chair, interlocking his fingers and resting the back of his head in his hands. "What part am I wrong about?"

She bristled at his persistence. "I have no desire to experience sexual intercourse with a member of your species."

He sucked the insides of his cheeks, appearing to give her statement serious consideration. "So," he said after a beat, "that means if you _were_ interested in sex with a human, I'd be your man."

She stood. "This discussion is illogical." She refused to be subjected to these overtures any longer. She cared even less for her absurd physiological response to them—a minuscule rise in body temperature, an infinitesimal increase in heart rate. Meditation was in order.

He grabbed her arm as she attempted to make her way past him. "Hey, now. Don't leave when things were just starting to get interesting. I can be a good boy."

She glared down at him, but her automatic rejection bled away from her as a third, unwelcome revelation lanced through her thoughts. How had she not seen it before? That from the moment he arrived, when Tucker leered at her, ogled her, it lacked the self-loathing other humans had when they found themselves attracted to her, a _filthy alien_. He, instead, saw nothing but an alluring female, no matter the color of her blood. And she found that _agreeable_.

No, that was wrong. She couldn't. She didn't.

"Let go of me," she demanded.

He searched her with unnerving intensity, the smirk gone, and for an alarming breath, she was tempted to place her fingertips at the psi points on his temple, his cheek and jaw. She wanted to know _why_. Why was he different?

He blinked and the moment was broken. Back was a familiar smug grin as he released her. "You know where to find me if you change your mind." He winked.

"I can assure you that I won't."

He snorted in disbelief. "All right." He turned his attention back to his meal in silent dismissal.

She left the hall, agitated. Something unspoken had transpired between them—something significant that she couldn't name—and with growing concern, she suspected that he understood the rules of their new dynamic much better than she did. Commander Tucker was far more dangerous than she originally believed.

* * *

**PRESENT:**

T'Pol reached for the zipper on her uniform once the door to her quarters was locked properly. The away mission had proved a fruitless endeavor. The planet was both uninhabited and inhospitable, though she and her team had spent hours scouring the surface confirming what the warship's sensors had already told them. It was terribly inefficient and a waste of resources, but she had come to understand that such pointless, menial tasks were meant to keep the crew too busy to create any real trouble. And too busy for the slaves to gather enough courage and resources to rebel.

She shrugged out of her uniform, a small frown pulling in the corners of her mouth when the fabric seemed to cling to her skin as she removed it. She skimmed her fingers over the cloth; it was damp. Odd. The planet had been an arid place and humidity levels on the ship were kept low. How could her uniform be damp? Unless... She brought a hand up to her forehead, noting with mounting apprehension that her skin was slick with sweat and entirely too warm. Had she contracted some bacterium or microorganism during her mission? Or had someone poisoned her? The latter was, regrettably, as likely a prospect as the former—the culprit any number of the crew. If she were given to laying odds, she'd favor Archer for the deed.

That last thought sounded disturbingly like something Commander Tucker would say. _If I were a betting man—_

Why would she think of _him?_ He had no place in her mind.

With a sigh of frustration, she redressed in her uniform. A visit to sickbay was unavoidable. If this was, in fact, an attempt on her life, she would have to hope that Dr. Phlox was not in on the scheme.

The corridors of the ship seemed crowded and noisy and sweltering as she trekked toward the medical facilities. Each time she was bumped and jostled, she was filled with an irrational urge to yell at the offender, to shove them away. Whatever this was—poison or microorganism—it was eroding the tight-fisted control she kept on her primal nature. She hastened in desperation, heedlessly knocking into others in her path. Just one more corner until relief. Just a few more—

She crashed bodily into something—some _one_ —solid and nearly lost her footing.

"Watch where you're going!" barked a dry baritone.

Commander Tucker. It was Commander Tucker. Her brows drew together. This was important—every instinct told her as much—but _why?_

He gripped her shoulders, forced her to face him, to see concern blossom on his scarred features. "Are you okay? You don't look so good?"

She glanced at his hand, large and calloused and cool. So _cool_. Why were humans always touching her? This human most of all—in her personal space, smashing through those delicate, unspoken barriers as though he wasn't beholden to the rules. Rage shot through her in erratic, electrical currents, and she wrenched his hands away. His answering yelp was a dim echo as she took a fistful of his uniform and slammed him against the bulkhead.

"You will let me pass, Commander," she hissed through her teeth.

He coughed a laugh. "Uh, darlin', you're the one who's holding me." He gave her white-knuckled grip a pointed look.

She panted one breath, then two, and finally understanding pierced through the fog of her mind. Another breath passed before she could straighten her fingers and step back.

He smoothed the front of his uniform, and she found the movement hypnotic. Those hands. Those _cool_ hands. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked again, and she snapped her eyes to his. Blue—not an uncommon color for humans, for Vulcans either, but his were _fascinating_. His brows furrowed. "T'Pol?" He inched toward her, and she retreated from him with a sharp breath.

The last vestige of her rationality urged her to run, screamed it. Run before...before what? (Cool hands. Blue eyes.) RUN.

She did.

"T'Pol!"

Her eyes fluttered open to the bright lights of sickbay. How...? She'd made it. Memory was hazy, a staccato of half-formed images. Bursting into facility, demanding to be seen immediately. The doctor's examination. The room unbearably hot. This place had become the Forge—no, a blue star. (Like his eyes.) Her flesh and blood were unquenchable flames, charring her from the inside out.

"Well, Commander," the doctor said, and she blinked, clinging to his words as if they were her only ties to reality. "If you were a Vulcan male, I would say that you were experiencing the onset of Pon'Farr."

Pon'Farr. _Pon'Farr_. Horror reached up with talons and seized her chest, stealing the air from her lungs. _No_. "Impossible!" The word was too loud, ringing in her sensitive ears, and she tried to rein in these chaotic emotions. "I am _female_."

"The scans indicate the beginning of the plak'tow—the blood fever," Phlox continued. "What I don't know is what's causing it. I'll need to take both a blood and tissue sample for analysis."

She nodded her assent. "Once the cause is found, I'm assuming you will be able to devise a cure." Her voice was thready, more air than words.

"Possibly." He laid the hypospray against her neck. "Commander, if this 'false' Pon'Farr follows the same route as the real thing, then you will have to resolve it or—"

"Die." But wouldn't that be a release? Freedom from the inferno building within her?

"Yes, and I'm not sure if I can find the cause, let alone develop a cure, in time. You may want to consider making use of one of the suitable Vulcan males on board." When she didn't move, didn't reply, he added, "Or you could let me monitor you as the blood fever runs its course. I'm sure the data would prove useful for future generations."

Her lip curled into a snarl, and she slipped off the exam table.

"Ah, it's a 'no,' then? Very well. Good luck, Commander." Phlox turned to catalogue the samples he'd taken. "What I still don't understand," he muttered to himself, "is how your physiology would even allow for this if females don't experience Pon'Farr?"

She took a step forward, arms rising to reach for his head. A simple twist of her hands and his neck would shatter like glass, and her people's closely guarded secret would be safe. One death to save millions from exploitation. It was true that unbonded females did not experience Pon'Farr, but _bonded_ females, however, shared the plak'tow with their mates. The empire abused the Vulcan ability to meld. The mate bond was deeper, sacred; they could _not_ have that, too.

The doors to sickbay hissed open, and she dropped her hands. Phlox glanced over his shoulder to see who had entered and seemed startled to find her immediately behind him. "Was there something else?"

Her gaze darted to the tall crewman who had stepped inside, cradling his arm. Had she nearly committed murder? She shook herself. Her species had suffered all manner of "testing" in the name of science, and the bond remained hidden. The notion that Phlox would succeed where others had failed was illogical. "No, Doctor. Thank you." She needed to find a suitable male before she lost all reason.

(Cool hands. Blue eyes.)

RUN.

_Blink._

Too many crewmen in the corridors again. Where had they all come from? Move. Move. MOVE. 

_Blink._

Left. Right. Right. Right again. Almost there. Almost to her rescuer.

_Blink._

So _hot_. A supernova scorching through her veins. Could the others see her? Blazing with insatiable need. Want. _Hunger_. Move. MOVE.

RUN.

_Blink._

Almost—

 _Blink_.

—there. _There_.

She reached up with a quaking hand, glistening with sweat, to press the call button, but snatched it back when she saw the number stenciled on the door. That was wrong. This was supposed to be the crew quarters of one of the two unbonded Vulcan males on the ship. But it wasn't. These were _his_ quarters. (Cool hands. Blue eyes.)

She willed herself to withdraw, to dash toward an appropriate mate. Instead, she brought her fingers up and inhaled the whisper of his scent still lingering there. Sweat and grease and a tang of ozone. Something she could only name human, but so very _masculine_. The imprint of him was already burned into her psyche, the neural pathways forged and solidified from hundreds of encounters.

There could be no other. He was the only logical choice.

She made quick work of cracking his security protocols and slipped into the darkened room. She drew in a deep breath, feeding the flames that crackled over her skin with more of him as she ambled toward his bunk in measured footfalls like a predator after its prey.

Too late, she realized the lump on the bed was merely tangled sheets.

* * *

_Son of a bitch!_

Trip pressed his blade against T'Pol's throat, curling an arm against her waist to hold her back tight against his chest. He'd installed extra security measures since Reed had tried to kill him over a year ago. He'd woken to a flashing light and scrambled to the bulkhead by the door, flattening himself against it. When the door opened, he instantly recognized the slight form of his favorite Vulcan. She crept toward his bed, and he wondered if she'd finally had enough of his overt advances. Killing him over it seemed damned illogical, but here she was.

"Looky, looky, looky," he breathed against her ear. "What do we have here? The Princess finally come to kill me? Was it something I said?" His heart hammered against his ribcage. He wasn't stupid. He knew she had more than twice his strength, but he'd be damned if he was going to beg for his life. "I should kill you for trying, but it'd be a shame to destroy something so pretty. How about I send you on your way instead?"

White exploded across his vision when she head-butted him. He didn't have time to reach for his injured nose before he was flipped over. He crashed against the unforgiving deck plating, gasping for the air that had been knocked out of him. T'Pol stood over him, her boot against his neck. She glanced at the blade he still held in his hand, and the corners of her mouth quirked up in a tiny, brief smile that looked _satisfied_. What the hell? He gripped it tighter, but she made no move to take it from him.

"I am not attempting to kill you," she ground out through a clenched jaw.

"Could have fooled me," he rasped with a glance toward her foot.

She swiped at her brow with the back of her hand in a jerky motion. Something was definitely wrong with her. "I need a...favor."

"Don't tell me—" he coughed, "—another tricorder on the fritz?" 

She answered by pushing on his trachea, and he grabbed at the sole of her boot in a futile attempt to counter the crushing weight.

"Listen!" she snapped. "I am...not well. I need your help!"

Each word seemed an unwilling confession, but Trip wasn't going to waste a second pondering the fact that she was begging him for something. The pressure on his throat eased, just a hair, and he twisted her foot, thrust upward with adrenaline-saturated strength. She toppled over, and he was on her, straddling her hips as he held her arms above her head. Her face was a combination of shock and something that looked an awfully lot like _lust_. That wasn't possible, though—was it?

Focus, dammit.

"Is it contagious?" he asked. 

"It is Vulcan," she said as if he ought to know whatever the hell that meant.

He snorted, waiting for her to expound further, but she only struggled against him, arching her hips up as if she were seeking something other than escape. Every cell in his body wanted to respond in kind, to press his lips to hers and finally taste her. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.

"Listen, darlin'," he snarled, trying to keep his thoughts straight while she squirmed beneath him again, "I ain't doing a damn thing for you until you tell me what the hell is wrong with you. 'Cause I suspect whatever you've got, I don't want."

"I believe that you do."

Another cryptic answer delivered with that hungry gaze. She was the siren, and he wanted to answer that call. He'd wanted her from the first moment he'd set foot on this goddamn hellhole of a ship. But not like this, not when she was clearly unwell with her skin tinged with a deeper, unhealthy green, sweat beading across her brow, eyes sunken beneath dark circles. Not when whatever she had could kill him.

"It is the Pon'Farr," she breathed. "Every seven years a Vulcan is driven to mate or suffer death."

He stared at her. Did he just hear her right? "Mate? You mean like sex?" He sat back on his heels, releasing her arms. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"Vulcans do not joke." Her fingers quested up his bare stomach to his chest, nails dragging against his skin, and he almost leaned into her scalding touch. "Goh tu. Tu goh veh," she murmured in her native tongue. "Please. Please quench the fire."

Trip swallowed, throat and tongue dry. "Just sex?" 

"Yes," she whispered, fevered gaze locked with his. "What you've always wanted."

He lost the battle then. He bent forward and crushed his mouth over hers, letting loose every desire he'd kept locked down for the last year and a half. She scraped her fingers up the nape of his neck, and through his hair. He had a fleeting thought of moving this to somewhere a little more comfortable, but then she ground her hips against him, fingertips pressing against his temple and cheek and—

Something dark and alien poured into him in a violent deluge. Voracious and demanding. White hot plasma cascaded through him, consuming him with an insatiable thirst. He'd have gasped it weren't for the staggering need strangling him. But then oxygen would only feed the inferno, leaving him as nothing more than ash. No, the cure was on her lips, in the cinnamon and spice of her flesh. He would devour her before she could destroy him.

He gripped her wrists, slammed her arms against the deck as he slid his body down to fit into the hollow of her curves. "Mine," he growled, daring her to contradict him, daring her to make him prove it.

"Yours," she agreed, and elation lapped at the edge of the strange connection they shared. 

His mouth was over hers as he breathed her in.

* * *

T'Pol came to with her arm and leg sprawled across Tucker's nude back and legs. He snored, the soft rumble vibrating against her skin. The red haze had finally receded from her mind—mostly. A residue curled in the edges, in a swell of possessiveness as she examined the discoloration in his flesh. Here was where she'd shoved him against his small desk, knocking over the components from some project he must have been working on. ("Tinkering" was what he called it.) There on his shoulder was where her teeth had dug in as a protest when he'd brought her to the precipice but refused to let her fall. He grinned at her anger, drank it in as if it were the antimatter fueling the burning core inside of him.

 _You're mine._ Mine, _T'Pol._

A shiver flitted over her at the memory. She recalled, too, when she repayed him in kind later, relishing that glint in his pale eyes, the grimace that twisted his mouth. Her fingers made lazy circles on his back as she relived each bruise, each bite mark. She should leave, meditate—she _needed_ to meditate—but the faint bells of desire still rang. She wasn't certain that she wanted to ignore them, not quite yet.

Tucker's snoring cut off abruptly with a sharp inhale, and disquiet tightened her throat. Could he have sensed her arousal? Had she inadvertently bonded him? No, that wasn't possible. He was human and humans were not telepathic.

"T'Pol?" he asked in a thick voice as he turned toward her. His gaze darted to where her body still met his and the corner of his mouth ticked up. "It wasn't a dream."

This was an option that she hadn't considered—that she could steal the memory from him or alter it so he would believe it to have been a dream. A touch of her fingertips, and this secret would be kept forever.

"You okay now?" With concern written in his gaze, he searched her face, brushed a lock of her hair from her cheek, and her lips parted in an involuntary sigh.

"I am fine," she lied. She was far from it. She couldn't extricate herself from him, couldn't bring herself to erase his mind. She wanted his fingers to keep dancing across her flesh. She wanted him to look at her and _remember_ —even if she could never let him have this again. She needed the power, she reasoned, a weapon to manipulate him with. (A partial lie, logic whispered.)

Cool hands. Blue eyes. _Hers_.

"Good," he murmured, drawing a line over her collarbone down her arm, "because that was one helluva night, darlin'. When you Vulcans let your guard down, you set it on fire."

The ease in his tone, his gentle caresses, as though they had an understanding as though she was safe with him and he with her—this was problematic. It was an illusion that she needed to dispel before he could draw the wrong conclusion. There was no safety in this bellicose universe, only survival, only ephemeral alliances, and a human couldn't be trusted. Not even him. She disentangled herself from him, rose from the bed to gather her things despite the yearning that swirled in her middle.

"We must never speak of this."

She glanced at him to be sure he understood the terms of their arrangement. He did. Sitting up, his features hardened, lines and angles edged with a bitterness that she imagined tainting him from within. (And she _did_ imagine it; she couldn't have possibly _felt_ it.)

He stood up, and she was rooted as he crossed the small space toward her, rage a flame in his gaze. She was unsettled by how deeply that pleased her, not that she'd raised his ire, but that it was born of avarice—for her.

"It's going to cost you," he said, and her skin pebbled in anticipation.

She kept her voice steady, dispassionate as she asked, "What is the price?"

He dragged his tongue across his bottom lip. "One more time. One more time with you in your right mind."

A small price. He could have required more from her, _should_ have, and later she would meditate on his restraint. Because she suspected that she had severely miscalculated him—from the moment of their first meeting.

Cool hands. Blue eyes.

"Agreed."

A feral smile was the only warning she had before he wrapped a calloused hand around the back of her head and kissed her with exigent craving.

 _Hers_.

* * *

She had ruined him. Sheets a twisted in his lap, he watched her leave, calm and cool as if last night hadn't happened, as if this morning's far tamer aftershock hadn't sent them both to another universe where they became nothing more than an explosion of energy. He muttered a curse, laying back on his pillow, running his hands over his face.

His hook-ups had always been a fun roll in the sack. But with T'Pol? He didn't even know how to define that. He'd never felt so possessive, so _violent_ with need. He'd never felt so intrinsically _connected_ to a lover before, and it was a perfect storm for addiction. A switch had been flipped inside of him, and that shit was scary as hell. He wanted more of that insanity, more of her. He wanted to chase after her, shove her up against a wall, and make her swear that she would be his as long as either of them drew breath.

But that would kill them both.

He wasn't the first human to do the naked tango with an alien, and he wouldn't be the last, but there was a difference between discreetly getting your rocks off when the occasional urge hit you and having an open relationship with those the empire deemed to be slaves. Purists like Archer and Reed would have him trussed up and flayed alive as a bloody cautionary tale to any other Terran who so much as looked at a nonhuman with anything but disgust. Her fate would be just as bad. If he could, he'd give them all the finger and move her into his quarters permanently.

Because everything inside of him screamed that she belonged to _him_ , even after the haze of last night had lifted.

Before she left, he'd asked her why she came to him. As much he enjoyed pushing her buttons, there'd never been any _real_ indication that she would want something like this, not with him. He'd had no delusions otherwise. 

"You were merely the closest male available."

That was an outright lie. His quarters were nowhere near sickbay, and he had run into her earlier just around the corner from Phlox's domain. He didn't call her on it, though. His gut told him that if he forced the truth out of her, she'd shut down. It would be the end of his favorite game, the end of any hope that he'd be first on her list should she ever need this particular kind of saving again.

And, of course, it was always good to have a card to play against her when the time came, as it invariably would. If he could bring himself to play it. He was suddenly and thoroughly invested in her welfare. What the _hell_ was that about? What did she do to him?

_Son of a bitch._

He was beyond screwed.

**~FIN~**

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! The story continues in _Sa'akh._ (Which will be reposted soon—once it, too, gets a proper edit.)
> 
> **TRANSLATION:**
> 
> Goh tu. Tu goh veh = _Only you. You are the only one._


End file.
